Model
by Awesomesauce123
Summary: Dean Thomas always liked to draw. He needs a model for his newest idea, and Seamus is eager to help. Two boys, one small, hidden clearing, and some art supplies. What could possibly go wrong? DTSF
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter or its wondrous characters. That honor belongs to the lovely J.K. Rowling.

**Warning: **Slash - malexmale pairing. If you don't like that sort of thing, I suggest you turn back now and find a story suitable to your tastes. 'Kay? 'Kay.

*

Dean paused, the tip of his quill mere centimeters from the yellowish surface of the parchment balanced atop his bent knees.

It was rainy Saturday evening, and Dean Thomas was hidden in his usual corner in the common room, bathed in shadows and trying to think of what to draw. His face was screwed up in concentration, dark eyes narrowed as they silently perused the bustling room, searching for any kind of inspiration. When he found none, his gaze dropped back to parchment, which remained hopelessly empty as the minutes ticked slowly by.

Sighing, Dean let his still hand fall limply to his side, curled knuckles brushing across the patterned carpet.

He brought his gaze up from the blank piece of paper once more, this time to simply observe the doings of his fellow Gryffindors.

In the center of the crowded common room, Fred and George were, as usual, the center of attention. They were showing off some new object to add their evergrowing list of 'toys' for their joke shop. Judging by the way the first years shrieked in horror and the older Gryffindors roared with laughter, it was a new seemingly harmful candy to add to their Skiving Snackboxes. Dean chuckled as a clearly audible thump suddenly sounded throughout the dimly lit room, followed by applause from George. Apparently Fred had been the test subject that time.

Drawing his eyes away from the small crowd of students who had gathered round the Weasley twins, Dean found his gaze now on their younger brother, Ron.

He was seated in the corner opposite from Dean, his head bent low, talking in hushed tones to Hermione and Harry, who were perched on either side of him, all three observing something spread out on the carpet in front of them. Hermione was shaking her head fretfully, obviously reluctant to help in whatever scheme her two friends were planning this time, but Ron was gesticulating wildly at her, his face nearly as scarlet as his hair from excitement. Harry was laughing quietly.

Dean allowed himself a small smile before once more averting his eyes to a different place. He was surprised to find that his gaze fell inevitably on a sandy-haired boy sitting alone at one of the many empty tables.

Seamus Finnigan was perched among a stack of thick books balanced on the bench around him, nearly hiding his slight frame from view. His head was bent over a piece of parchment, quill scribbling madly across the surface, his eyes flicking up every once in a while to study an open volume spread out before him. His mouth was pinched tight in concentration, the lines around his chapped lips clearly visible, even from the distance Dean was at. Similar grooves were drawn between his eyebrows, adding a few years to his usually boyish face.

Dean studied his fellow classmate for a few more minutes, his dark eyes wandering down to the parchment every once in while in sudden hope, then sliding back up in defeat when the inspiration disappeared as suddenly as it arrived, before finally giving up and throwing the blank parchment and quill to the floor, where they remained even as he stood and stretched out his muscles, cramped from having sat immobile for so long.

Dean paused only long enough to check that no one was coming his way before striding casually forward, across the flowery carpet, to the table where Seamus sat. The Irish boy seemed to not notice Dean's presence, because he continued to scribble sloppily across his own sheet of parchment, pausing only to check his book after every sentence he finished.

He finally looked up when Dean uncerimoniously plopped onto the bench beside him, crossing his ankles leisurely in front of him. A pair of sapphire blue eyes lifted quickly to meet dark brown ones, holding quizzical surprise at his best friend's sudden appearance.

Seamus opened his mouth after a moment to say something but his words were cut off by the jaw-cracking yawn that issued suddenly from his lips. When Dean let out a low peal of laughter, Seamus glared over at him playfully, a bright red heat infused in his pale face. "Asshole," he murmured without any real heat, before turning his eyes back to the nearly-full piece of parchment rolled out over the table. The Irish boy's familiar, sloppy handwriting stretched across nearly the entire surface. It was obvious by the purple shadows blooming beneath twin blue eyes that Seamus had been working for several hours on his mountainous amount of homework.

After adding one more short sentence, ending the last 'y' with a flourish, Seamus gave a grateful little sigh and reached up to roll his parchment closed, a tired smile playing on his lips when he was finished.

When he had carefully stored the scroll in his book bag, Seamus shifted his position so that he was facing Dean, his eyes now openly quizzical. "So, whatchu' want?" the Irish boy asked, offering Dean a polite smile.

Dean rolled his eyes in a mockingly agitated manner, then shot an answering grin at Seamus. "I was bored," he supplied casually.

One thin eyebrow lifted, and Seamus's smile melted fluidly into a pout. He was laying on the offended attitude pretty thick as he replied, "What? So now I'm a last resort? Just a way to help your boredom?" He turned away, twisiting his torso just enough so that he didn't have to look at Dean, but the other boy caught the smile in Seamus's sapphire eyes. "And here I was, poor wittle Seamus, thinking I was your _friend_." He sniffed. "I guess I was wrong."

Dean laughed outright at that. "You're such a damn pansy," he chuckled, shaking his head as Seamus finally turned back to join in the laughter.

Then Dean turned a more serious look on his friend, his eyebrows lifted in questioning. "Nah, I just wanted to ask you something," he started slowly.

Seamus blinked. "Yeah?" he asked. And then paused. "If it has anything to do with helping you prank the Slytherins, I'm in. You know I hate those filthy bastards." He shuddered slightly.

Dean chuckled. "Not this time." He offered a hesitant smile to Seamus, who had cocked his head, and was now staring at Dean with an expression not unlike that of a confused puppy. Dean grinned and shook his head again. "I was actually wondering if you could help me with my drawing."

Something in Seamus's eyes lit up, like a bomb had went off inside the Irish boy, a wild grin instantly splitting his face. "Of course!" he readily agreed. But then his bright smile faltered, and he blinked. "But, uhh... I have no artistic talent. You of all people should know that," he added, smirking as he remembered Dean's reaction to waking up one Sunday morning, only to find a stack of his precious drawing parchment balanced on his chest atop the covers, mutilated by Seamus's squiggly stick figures and haphazard coloring. It had definitely been a real laugh for the rest of the boys in their dormitory. And it would have been for Seamus too, had Dean not reached for his throat the minute he saw what had happened to his parchment.

Dean smirked back and nodded. "Yeah," he muttered, "I know. But that isn't what I mean." He suddenly felt nervous, one hand instinctively coming up to run through his short dark hair. "I was wondering if... if you'd like to be my model."

For some reason Dean found it rather hard to finish the sentence, although he knew it shouldn't have been.

Seamus seemed to space out for a second, his expression going rather blank. But then his sapphire-blue eyes widened with excitement, a bright grin rushing to his lips as he brought his hands together in a single clap. "Seriously?" he asked quickly, his voice breathless with excitement.

Dean grinned and nodded, feeling a peculiar weight lift off his chest at the sight of Seamus's obvious joy. "Seriously."

Seamus made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeal, but it was drowned out by his immediate string of breathless questions. "What kind of modeling will I be doing? Still life? An action shot? A-" he began, but then his grin fell and was replaced by an open-mouth grimace of disgust. "It's not... it's not a... a _nude _portrait, is it?" He sounded queasy now.

"Aw, hell no!" Dean cried, feeling heat rush to his face at the very prospect. "Dude, you're my best mate. Why would I want to see you _naked_? Much less for several hours!" He shivered and made a mock retching sound in the back of his throat.

Seamus laughed, but it sounded just a tad nervous now. "Yeah, I s'pose so."

He fell silent for a few moments after that, Dean joining in, his mind grabbing furiously for any image other than the one Seamus had conjured up. The thought made his gut stir oddly and heat creep into his cheeks and throat.

He was saved having to say anything by Seamus's boisterous question of, "So what time? Tomorrow, maybe? How about somewhere around three?"

Dean chuckled and nodded, happy for the excuse to force his mind away from the array of pictures that had wormed their way inside his head. "Sounds good. Meet me in front of the place where the Room of Requirements would be, okay?"

Seamus nodded vigorously.

Dean grinned. "Good." He stood quickly from his perch on the bench, suddenly feeling oddly warm, and shot the Irish boy a quick smile. "See ya' tomorrow, Seamus. Three, right?"

"Right."

"Okay. 'Night."

"'Night."

* * *

_This is, of course, not finished yet. I have found myself to be quite fond of this pairing, and I had this idea late into the night and just had to jot it down. This will either be just a few chapters long, or it could develop into a fic of epic proportions. Who knows. _

_Meg_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Model  
Chapter Two_**

Sunday morning dawned bright and early. When Seamus finally awoke somewhere around eleven, the rest of the dormitory was empty. The only sounds were of the distant winds sweeping through the trees outside the open windows, and the soft, drowsy hooting of Pigwidgeon in the corner. Hazy sunshine swept through the windows and blinded the Irish boy as he rolled onto his back.

As Seamus moaned contentedly and pushed himself up off the matress, he couldn't help but to inhale. The tantalizing scents of bacon, eggs, and syrup wafted up from downstairs, drawing Seamus quickly out of bed and toward his trunk, which he threw open and quickly plucked out a green T-shirt, dark jeans, dragon-hide boots and a black string with a tiny silver shamrock hanging from the end. He threw that quickly over his head so that it fell around his neck, the little shamrock hitting his chest with a familiar weight, and then stepped up to the full-length mirror placed opposite his bed to start dressing.

He pulled on the dark blue jeans with little effort, taking care to make sure that they hung just so on his hips, enough that it would reveal a sliver of snowy skin if Seamus decided to lift his arms and his shirt rode up. He quickly pulled said shirt over his head, adjusting the necklace he wore afterwards so that it was revealed to the world.

When that was done, Seamus shuffled back and plucked a simple black comb from the bottom of his trunk. He ran it slowly through his disheveled hair, swiping a few sandy strands away from the bridge of his nose, making sure that the rest fell just right around his head. It took nearly five minutes to get just the right style, but he finally achieved his goal, awarding himself with a Chocolate Frog that he grabbed from his trunk before slamming the lid closed. He nearly resisted the sudden temptation to turn back to the mirror and give his appearance a once-over, but in the end his mind won out and he spun back to face his reflection.

Now, this was not usually a routine for Seamus Finnigan. On regular weekends, he would wake up, roll off the matress and onto the patterned carpet, and groan about stupid sunlight. Then he would trudge to his cluttered trunk, blindly throw on whatever smelled clean, and shuffle out of the dorimitory, leaving the others fumbling with their clothes behind him.

But the prospect of Dean's modeling session the present day had been gnawing at Seamus since the taller boy had brought it up the previous night. It had even plagued Seamus's dreams, invading his unprotected mind as he slept. Now he realized that Dean probably wouldn't give a damn what he looked like - he would more than likely laugh - but Seamus felt that looking decent for his first modeling session was necessary if he wanted it to work right.

Hence the effortless windblown style he had finally managed and the decently-matching clothes - which, of course, had to display his home country. It seemed mandatory - in his mind, at least.

Exactly three minutes later, Seamus swept out of the empty dormitory and across the hallway, pausing when he reached the steep staircase. But then he grinned and, shoving the wrapped Chocolate Frog into his hip pocket, perched himself atop the thick wooden banister that wrapped around the staircase. He paused just long enough to position his hands in front of him, and then he placed the heels of his boots onto the railing behind him, and kicked.

The familiar feel of cool air rushing across his face and arms was magnificent, and Seamus laughed out loud when a startled Harry Potter had to jump quickly sideways to avoid the Irish boy, knocking over Ron Weasley in the process, who in turn began shouting after Seamus as he continued downward, the menace in his voice just barely marred by his own badly-veiled laughter.

When Seamus hit the floor about thirty seconds later, he looked back to see Ron and Harry descending also. They were both grinning, and their faces were flushed from sprinting down the stairs after him. Harry's round glasses were askew on the bridge of his nose, his eyes bright as he glanced over at Ron, who was scarlet in the face from running and simultaneously laughing, his freckles nearly concealed under the heavy color in his nose and cheeks.

Seamus shot them a sheepish grin, then shot up from the floor and practically bounced to Harry's side. "What's up, Harry?" he greeted, then leaned forward to look at Ron. "And you, Weasel?"

Ron's smile instantly melted into a malicious scowl. Seamus jumped back with a shriek of surprise when two hands suddenly shot for his throat, then grimaced playfully when Harry and Ron collapsed in fits of wild laughter.

"You git," Ron chuckled once they had calmed down, reaching up to wipe tears from his eyes, "Do you really think I would strangle you in the middle of the common room?" He shook his head, his shaggy red hair brushing the shoulders of his gray sweater as he did so. "That would get me - what? Four weeks of detention? I think not!" he cried defiantly, lifting his hand to clutch dramatically at his heart.

Harry and Seamus snickered together. Harry's unusual green eyes rolled back in mock agitation. "And you call Seamus a git," he muttered quietly as he turned away.

Ron's mouth fell open while he watched Harry and Seamus turn and head for the portrait of the Fat Lady, who was snoozing contentedly in a swath of sunlight falling through one of the many high windows. "W-wait!" he called, hurrying after them as the Fat Lady swung forward at Harry's call of the password, his feet just barely disappearing through her frame as she closed back with an impatient sigh behind Seamus and Harry.

Harry and Ron departed a few minutes after they arrived in the crowded Great Hall, disappearing off to a corner occupied only by the bushy-haired Hermione Granger. They instantly fell into a hushed conversation over something spread out in front of them on the flowery carpet.

Seamus seated himself at one of the many crowded benches lining the Hall, his mouth nearly watering as he took in the dishes of food that were spread out before him. As it was nearly noon now, the bacon, pancakes, and porridge had been replaced with great dishes of potatoes and chicken, steak and carrots, and even a wide porcelain bowl that was filled to the brim with bright blue squirming tentacles. Nobody dared to touch those.

Seamus began piling his plate high with steak-and-kidney pie, grilled chicken, medium-rare steak that was perfectly pink in the center, and even something that looked a bit like dragon heart.

He dug in a few moments later, pausing every couple minutes or so to take a swig of pumpkin juice from his goblet, before returning back to his overflowing plate.

He didn't notice another presence beside him until something sharp dug into his ribs, jerking him back into reality with a howl of pain. He turned narrowed blue eyes on the intruder, mouth open to begin spouting insults in his soft Irish lilt, and froze when he found an amused pair of chocolate-brown irises gazing back at him.

"Dean?" Seamus asked slowly, the fist that had been clenched at his side slowly releasing with relief.

"The one and only!" the taller boy replied, flashing a stunning grin at Seamus, who in turn flushed red with embarrassment. Wait - did he just think of Dean as... _stunning_?

Seamus's mouth fell open with silent surprise, but he turned his head, pretending to be interested in what Lee Jordan was saying to the twins so Dean wouldn't see the heat that had swam up the length of his throat and over his cheeks. He forced the thought away and simply blamed it on having been looking at Harry a few minutes before. He had always fancied the boy...

Once more, Seamus was thrown out of his thoughts by Dean's elbow in his side. He winced and twisted around, shoving Dean sideways in mock anger. Dean wasn't expecting the sudden force, though, and he toppled backward and nearly landed on the floor. He would have if, beside him, Angelina Johnson wouldn't have thrown her arm out and hauled the boy back into his seat with susprising ease. She hadn't even turned her gaze away from her dinner.

Dean paused and looked over at her, his face dark with color, eyes wide in surprise. "Thanks," he murmured quickly, and then spun back to face Seamus, his jaw slightly slack.

An unexpected pang of anger slammed into Seamus's heart, which in turn lit his gut with a horrible jealousy. He froze as the sudden urge to hit Angelina coursed through him, and he probably wouldn't have resisited if not for Dean staring at him, eyes wide and mouth pursed in worry. "You okay?" he asked quietly. "You spaced out on me."

Seamus forced out a wavering chuckle and then shifted his gaze back to his nearly-empty plate, his appetite having seemingly Disapparated. "Yeah," he murmured, "I'm good."

There was moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Dean grinned and clapped Seamus hard on the back, throwing the Irish boy unintentionally forward. "So, we've only got about three hours til we start this modeling thing, right?" Dean asked, his usual bright smile back in place on his face.

Seamus felt the anger dissolve just as quickly as it had appeared, and he grinned back, feeling his bubbly excitement snap back into place with ease. "Yep!" he lilted happily, "I just hope this looks okay..." He tugged selfconciously at the hem of his green T-shirt, face very warm again.

Dean smiled reassuringly. "It looks great. And I like your hair," he added with a wink, "It actually looks human today."

Seamus laughed and slapped his arm. Hard.

Dean winced slightly and reached up to rub the growing red mark. Oh yeah, he forgot. Seamus didn't like to have his _precious_ hair insulted. The thought caused dark eyes to roll unconciously back, but Dean smiled anyway.

Looking down, Dean pulled a silver pocket watch from the hip pocket of his blue jeans and flipped it open, where a tinny female voice instantly announced, "It is exactly twelve-twenty-seven P.M. on Sunday of April, the twenty-second, 1676."

Seamus's eyebrows arched high as Dean snapped the pocket watch shut and slid it back inside his pocket. "1676?" he repeated uncertainly.

Dean chuckled and nodded, his hand going down to pat the watch inside his pocket lovingly. "Yep. It was my mum's mum's mum's mum's. Or my great-great-grandmum's, I s'pose," he added thoughtfully. "After she passed on in 1676, my great-grandmum got it, and she never figured out how to change the year. Turns out that my great-grandmum had set it that way. She thought 1676 was an amazing year according to her daughter, and she wanted it to stay that way." Dean paused. He chuckled and shook his head, turning his eyes wistfully toward the open window nearest to them. In that position, the hazy light made him look older, wiser, highlighting the full line of his lips and the oddly delicate curve of his nose.

Seamus blushed again and turned his head, embarrassment flooding through him at the prospect that he had just been studying his best mate's profile with an artistic eye. An artistic eye he did not have, at that.

"Anyway," Dean continued after a moments pause, turning back to flash Seamus that same tempting smile from before, "She was a crazy old bat, if her pictures are anything to go by." He laughed outright at that, then stood abruptly from his seat beside Seamus.

The Irish boy glanced up at Dean, who now towered over him, still grinning, and raised an eyebrow. "Whatchu' doin'?" he asked slowly.

Dean smiled. "Headin' outside," he replied. "Wanna come? You know we still have some time to burn, right?"

Seamus offered a small smirk back, and then bounced from his seat to stand beside Dean. With a flourish, he offered his arm to the taller man, along with a suggestive lift of his thin eyebrows and a grin. "Shall we?" he asked in a comically slow, formal voice.

Dean, who was now oddly red in the face, lifted his own arm and twined it through Seamus's outstretched one, making sure that the insides of their elbows connected before he nodded, throwing another brilliant grin back at the Irish boy. Quickly, he gave a sharp nod and smoothed over his expression, taking time to straighten his spine and tilt his chin arrogantly. Although he couldn't quite mask the silent giggles that shook his posture.

"We shall."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Model  
Chapter Three_**

The sunshine was warm and disorienting, and Dean had to blink several times to clear away the spots dancing behind his eyes once Seamus had dragged him out onto the grounds.

Birds chirruped merrily among the branches of the Forbidden Forest, sounding horribly out of place when compared to the petrified screams of a few first years who were currently scrambling across the dew-slick grass and away from a laughing Malfoy and his cronies. All three were doubled over with the force of their shrieking giggles.

Dean shook his head sharply in digust. Anger rose like bile in the back of his throat as he watched the trio waving their wands menacingly at a few brave second years, their cold faces split into leering grins.

Dean pulled his arm sharply out of the smaller boy's grip, letting it fall limply to his side, where his hand curled into a tight fist. He knew he had come out here to try and calm Seamus's obvious building nerves, but the sight of Malfoy and his worshippers disgusted Dean to no end.

With a sigh, the taller boy forced his gaze away from the 'Ice Prince,' as Hermione sometimes put it, and turned to Seamus. He offered a weak smile, but he knew it wasn't very convincing.

At the sight of Seamus's crossed arms and raised eyebrow, Dean dropped the facade and sighed, throwing his best mate an apologetic glance before directing his gaze out at the smooth, glimmering surface of the Black Lake. "I'm sorry, Shay," he sighed. "They're just so... so...."

"Arrogant? Stupid? Unbearable? Horrible?" Seamus finished quietly.

Dean allowed himself a smile as he nodded. It seemed Seamus was feeling quite a bit more nervous now, if his barely audible tone was anything to go by. His wide blue eyes were averted now, gazing off through a dusty patch of sunlight that led into the Forbidden Forest. A pair of unnatural yellow eyes glared back at him, but Seamus seemed to take no notice. His slender arms were crossed over his chest, a selfconcious gesture Dean had noticed back in their first year, and he was worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

Dean smiled wearily and stepped back to Seamus's side, unconciously gaining the boy's attention once more. He directed his own stare out past Malfoy, who had now taken residence up in the branches of a gnarled old oak tree, and out to a small clearing between a circle of weeping willows. His dark eyebrows piqued immediately with interest, and Seamus quickly followed his gaze - and nearly squealed again.

The unoccupied circle was rather large, probably about fifteen feet across, and was surrounded by a plethora of colorful flowers and tendrils of leaves, all of which hung just outside the perimeter of the little space.

A picture suddenly came to Dean's mind, a picture of Seamus Finnigan, posing for him in the little circle of plants, blue eyes hooded, pink lips open, dressed up as Adam without his precious Eve...

Dean's mouth fell open in shock. Never before had a picture so vivid, so realistic, so... _dirty _came to his mind. It made the same odd feeling of heat stir in his abdomen as the previous night, and a dark flush crept up his throat and into his hairline. He fought the urge to clap his hands over his mouth in embarrassment. Seamus stared up at him, thin eyebrows lifted in mild amusement, lips twitching minutely at the corners. His hands had slid away from his chest and were shoved casually into the hip pockets of his jeans.

Dean refused to meet his eyes, but he did manage to choke out, "Um... it-it looks like a good place to-to model." His skin was lit with a cherry-red hue now, and Seamus failed to hide his grin.

"Hell yea, it does!" he readily agreed, reaching up to tuck a strand of flyaway hair behind his ear as he spoke, eyes bright with excitement as he continued to examine the wide clearing. "So, to hell with the Room of Requirements?"

Dean managed a jerky nod and a smile. "Yep."

Seamus's grin nearly reached his ears. "Perfect," he murmured softly, and from the fleeting expression of embarrassment that passed over his face, Dean got the impression he hadn't been meant to hear that.

* * *

Two-thirty came very quickly, too quickly in Dean's opinion, for he and Seamus had spent the entire afternoon examining the dimly lit clearing, pointing out different species of plants that sighed and danced around them, talking, even, to a tiny fuzzy creature that had clambered out of an opening in the gnarled trunks of the trees. It had run back into the little space as soon as Seamus had reached out to pet it, its high-pitched shriek of horror echoing across the entirety of the grounds as it fled.

Dean had doubled over in a fit of laughter at the pitiful, crestfallen look that had instantly fallen across Seamus's face, plumping up his bottom lip and magnetically pulling his arms across his chest in an attempt at impassive defiance. But the embarrassed flush in his cheeks could not be masked.

Once Dean had calmed down, wiping the tears from his eyes with effort, he found the Irish boy glaring angrily over at him. Dean had winked and blown a kiss at the flushed Seamus.

After that, Seamus had been throwing odd looks at Dean when he thought the taller boy wasn't looking, his cheeks infused with seemingly permanent color.

Now, though, Seamus seemed solely focused on his watch, throwing it boisterous looks every few minutes to check the time. When two-fifty-five came and went, Dean stood from his perch on the on the slick green ground and started for the castle, Seamus spouting questions every few seconds at his heels.

"What colors are you going to use? Oh, that's stupid question. You don't like black-and-white art. Will you use colored pencils? Paint? Pastels? Should I do a sexy pose? Casual? Movement? Still life?"

By the time they reached the boys dormitory, Seamus's face was cherry-red with excitement, his breath coming in shallow pants from talking the entire walk to the dorm, his hands gesticulating wildly, slicing dramatic arcs through the air with every question.

_"Seamus," _Dean finally sighed, turning in the process of gathering his paints and pencils, his expression impatient. "Shut up, will ya'? I need to focus to make sure I get everything. Just... go sit... over there." He gestured blindly toward Seamus's bed against the far wall.

Even though Seamus should have instantly been offended, he simply beamed at Dean and bounced off to his bed, where he perched on the edge and dragged the soles of his dragon-skin boots quickly across the carpet, biting his tongue against the questions begging to be asked.

Dean relaxed quickly once silence had fallen, and resumed picking up his charcoal and graphite pencils, his erasers, his box of fifty different paints, along with a few sheets of white poster board he kept hidden beneath his bed, and a small wooden stand with an erect back.

Once that had been done, and all the supplies had been tucked into Dean's red-and-gold duffle bag, he stood and smiled at Seamus, who had been intently watching his every move since he had sat down on the bed. Dean lifted his hand and curled his fingers in toward himself, silently motioning for the Irish teen to come with him.

Seamus was up in a flash, bounding over to Dean's side as the taller wizard turned to the exit, a small smile curving his lips.

"Ready?" he asked the beaming Seamus, just as the grandfather clock outside the boys dormitory struck three-o'-clock.

There was moments pause as Seamus quickly ran his hand back through his shaggy hair and adjusted the hem of his T-shirt around the waistband of his dark jeans. The he turned a wide grin up at Dean and, clapping his hands once more in front of him.

"Hell yea!"


	4. Chapter 4

**_Model  
Chapter Four_**

The two fifth-year boys once again made their way out of the ancient school building. The sun was still blazing down upon the grounds; the blinding golden orb burned high against the backdrop of forget-me-not sky. Birds sang merrily up in the leafy branches of the Forbidden Forest, their cheerful melody happily uninterrupted, thanks to Malfoy stalking into the school after Harry Potter, undoubtedly preparing to begin his daily ritual of taunting The Boy Who Lived.

Seamus allowed a content sigh to escape his throat as he slid out of the cool, dark hallway and into the blazing sunshine; it bounced off the back of his head, instantly lifting dots of perspiration along the back of his neck. But feelings of complete ease flooded through his nerves, wiping away any lingering feelings of apprehension he might have been experiencing.

As he and Dean neared the wide clearing for the second time that day, though, Seamus felt something nervous bite at the back of his mind. The sweat that had been gathering beneath the thin string around his neck was now cool and sticky, clinging to the nape of his neck and gluing the shamrock necklace to the ends of his sandy hair.

Dean seemed to have sensed his anxious apprehension, for he turned his head to the side and shot Seamus another one of his infamous grins over his shoulder.

Seamus grinned weakly back. His stomach continued to roil repulsively.

The pair reached the clearing about a minute later; both were struck into silence once more by the sheer beauty of the empty clearing; bright, swaying wildflowers were rung around it, the gnarled trunks of ancient trees scattered between them to create a shield of sorts around the two boys. Soft chinks of dazzling sunlight split the kempt grass inside it with dizzying patterns of dusty light.

Dean came out of the trance-like silence first, bending over to studiously place his red-and-gold duffel atop the blades of short emerald grass. He sat his straight-backed drawing stand up beside the mottled trunk of a shadowy old maple, which waved its branches as though in welcome while the tall boy began lovingly picking his paints and pencils from his bag to arrange them around the wooden stand. He sat one of the large sheets of poster board carefully on the narrow ledge jutting out from the erect back, running his long fingers over the edges gently to smooth out any creases or folds in the brilliantly white paper as he did so.

Seamus stood awkwardly off to the side of the clearing. His palms were sweating profusely, along with the back of his neck, although he was standing in a patch of cool shadow beneath the branches of a swaying oak tree. He tried to wipe his damp hands on the fabric of his jeans, but he only succeeded in creating dark patches of wetness on the rough denim over his thighs.

Sighing, he dropped his hands in defeat and simply tilted his head back to observe the clearing more closely. About ten different kinds of trees were spread around the empty circle, including oak, maple, fir, and even a couple womping willows set back far from the clearing, their branches waving dangerously about thirty feet away. A plethora of the weirdest wildflowers Seamus had ever seen were woven into the damp dirt between the tree trunks. Some petals were periwinkle blue, dusty pink, delicate lilac. These ones, the most dainty looking of all, had mouths set into the middle, lipless smiles that revealed tiny, pointed teeth that sparkled maliciously in the chinks of sunlight falling through the branches above.

But those were definitely not the most odd. No, the weirdest had to be the two-foot-tall wildflowers that came up Seamus's thighs, each and every one of them with acid-green, electric-blue, hot-pink, and startling-orange petals, all of which had threads of delicate gold interwoven into their fragile folds. Dozens of pairs of wide, innocent-looking eyes gazed up wistfully at Seamus from the bright petals, all cerulean blue and emerald green irises. The only thing that marred these flowers' tempting cuteness, were the thirty-or-so five-inch thorns protruding from each of their thick stalks.

Seamus stepped quickly away when one of the blindingly bright flowers extended a thorny stalk to him, its luminous eyes impossibly wide.

"Seamus?" A smooth, highly amused voice asked from across the clearing.

The Irish boy's eyes shot up to find Dean staring down at him, one dark eyebrow arched gracefully, his hands resting on his hips. A look of of amused incredulity rested on his dark features. A piece of poster board was set up behind him, the erect stand upon which it sat surrounded by various drawing utensils, including wide and miniscule paint brushes, a number of pencils, an eraser, three more pieces of paper, and a box of many paints, a few of which were already open and ready.

Heat infused in Seamus's cheeks, reddening the tips of his ears and the line of his pale throat. "Sorry," he murmured nervously, shoving his hands into his pockets and directing his gaze unseeingly through a gap between the trunks of two gnarled old maples.

Dean smiled and shook his head slightly; he removed his hands from his hips and stepped carefully up beside Seamus, his eyes never leaving the other boy's averted face.

Dean lifted his hand and slid two of his long fingers beneath Seamus's chin, directing the nervous fifth-year's gaze back to his own. The Irish boy froze as intense chocolate eyes met his own, the dark orbs surveying his face with skeptic interest. Dean turned Seamus's head gently, observing the sides of his head, then let go of Seamus's chin and grazed his eyes over the shorter wizard's arms, his chest, stomach, legs, and, finally, his shuffling dragon-skin boots.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Seamus asked nervously, his cheeks stained with a fresh coat of burning red color.

"Thinking," Dean answered simply. He turned the Irish boy's head again, this time his dark eyes raking over Seamus's hair; his lips were pursed, free hand twitching absentmindedly at his side, as though the taller boy was already painting his friend's steadily reddening face.

"Smile," Dean suddenly demanded. Seamus paused uncertainly; Dean sighed and rolled his eyes toward the upper levels of the towering old trees, before reaching out with both hands and using his index fingers to tug the corners of Seamus's mouth up a fraction. He cocked his head to both sides, intensely observing the tight-lipped, forced smile he was rewarded with. His frown was immensely disapproving.

"This would be a lot easier if you would just relax," he sighed. Seamus's eyebrow arched upward as Dean removed his fingers from the corners of his mouth and Seamus's anxious frown settled back into place.

There was a momentary silence. Then Seamus sighed and grunted, "Ya' know, you get awfully bossy when you paint."

Quite unexpectedly, Dean let out a bark of laughter and leaned back on his heels to better observe Seamus's once-again reddening face with a grin. "Well_, sor-_ry," he emphasized sarcastically; his amused grin didn't falter. "Whatever," he chuckled at the skeptic look that passed over Seamus's face, "Let's get on with this!"

The tone of his voice was instantly eager; Seamus felt a wave of his own eager apprehension wash over him; butterflies swarmed in his gut; his cheeks felt hot with nervous excitement; a grin, as tight and slightly anxious as it was, stoked a blaze in his wide blue eyes.

"Yeah, yeah; right!" he agreed readily, bouncing quickly to Dean's side and bending down to his level as the taller boy shuffled lovingly through the art utensils scattered beside his drawing board.

Dean laughed again - a softer, smoother sound than the bark of laughter that had issued from his lips moments before.

"C'mere, Shay," he murmured, holding out his hands and gesturing the boy closer to himself. Seamus obediently stepped forward.

As soon as Dean's hand closed around Seamus's slight shoulders, the Irish boy was being steered away from the duffel bag and drawing board placed next to the tree to be shuffled to the exact center of the wide clearing. Dean removed his hands from Seamus's shoulders and spun back to face his stuff, eyes alert, obviously searching to see if this would be a good position. It apparently was, because Dean turned back to Seamus with another brilliant grin; triumph shone prominently in his dark eyes.

"This is perfect!" he announced. But Seamus was left standing awkwardly as Dean spun back and stalked back toward his drawing board, seating himself behind it with an air of pride.

He eyed Seamus critically for a few moments; the boy was standing with his hands in his pockets, face flaming red with nerves.

With a sigh, Dean lifted his hands and sliced a wide arc through the air. Seamus took that as a cue to spin around.

Dean eyed him still more incredulously when Seamus had turned back to meet the taller boy's eye. One hand was beneath his chin, index finger touching his dark bottom lip thoughtfully. Seamus's gut stirred uncomfortably at the sudden thought that Dean looked rather.... well, _beautiful_, sitting with his eyes narrowed and observant, mouth open slightly, finger pressed to his lip, the dusty chinks of light falling through the branches above highlighting the melted- chocolate-color of his eyes and the smooth texture of his dark skin.

Seamus turned his head to side slightly, face alight with heat. He tried pathetically to mask the sudden desire that had sprang to life inside his ocean-blue irises from the critically observant Dean.

But there was sudden gasp from behind the stand at the front, and Seamus's head snapped reflexively back to Dean; his eyes were alert, hand instinctively going to the waistband of his dark jeans, where he had placed his wand when Dean had escorted him back to the dormitory to get his precious drawing supplies.

Despite his alert suspicion, though, the only thing Seamus saw before him was a grinning, pencil-wielding Dean. "Turn back the way you were!" he demanded in a rushed, enthusiastic tone. He had obviously found the pose he wanted.

Seamus obediently did so, although with a slow reluctance at his friend's odd behavior.

As soon as the Irish boy's head was averted toward the mottled trunks of the trees to his left, he heard the distinct sound of one of Dean's expensive pencils scratching hurriedly across the parchment.

"Put your hands in your pockets," Dean commanded again. Seamus once more followed his orders, stuffing his hands into the hip pockets of his expensive blue jeans. As soon as he did so another barking demand was issuing from Dean's lips: "Lift your head a little - there you go," he praised when Seamus tilted his head just a fraction of an inch toward the canopy of tangled branches and vines draped above him.

"Bossy," Seamus grumbled again; but he was supressing a smile.


	5. Chapter 5

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**Model  
Chapter Five**

The light was fading steadily faster by the time Dean set down his charcoal pencil and grabbed a thin-tipped paint brush from the pile at his side. Seamus's muscles were screaming in protest, along with his feet, which had fallen asleep twenty minutes ago and were now aching with pins and needles.

Seamus sighed loudly; Dean looked up impatiently. "What?"

"How much longer is this going to take?" the Irish boy whined hotly. "My entire body hurts!"

Dean sighed quietly and turned his attention back to dipping the end of his brush into a small container of dark green paint before answering. "It's only been about half an hour, ya' know." He touched the fine hairs of his brush to the poster board. "I think you're just being a baby."

Seamus quieted down at that, but it still didn't stop him from sporting an indignant pout.

Dean's brush stroked languidly across the surface of his paper; the result was hidden from Seamus's prying eyes, but he knew when Dean had moved on to painting his hair by the way his hand, clutching a miniscule-tipped paint brush, began a repetitive, timid touching against the upper part of the white poster board.

Thirty more minutes passed in comfortable silence. And then-

"Ya' know what, screw this."

The graceful hand that had been moving in languid, hidden strokes behind the paper abruptly stopped as Dean looked up from his work with a look of impatient defiance. His dark eyes were focused hotly on Seamus, burning darkly in the fading lights of twilight seeping through the branches. He stood quickly from his kneeling perch on the grass and turned away from Seamus, whose expression was one of the utmost confusion. It was horribly unlike Dean to just give up on a project.

"What do you mean, screw this?" the Irish boy asked, as Dean began throwing his paints and brushes back into his duffel bag with impatient untidiness.

"I mean, _screw this,_" Dean repeated, enunciating carefully, as though speaking to an autistic three-year-old. "Why the hell would I sit here painting it, if I could make it reality...." he murmured to himself, turning once more away from Seamus to gaze back at his painting, still hidden from the Irish boy's view. His stare was directed at the art in front of him, but his eyes were wistfully distant, unfocused, holding some burning emotion that, even when not directed at him, made Seamus's insides sear with fire.

The fiery emotion was quelled by Seamus's rising irritation. "Why the hell would you say that?" he spat angrily. "I stood there like a friggin' oaf for over an hour, trying to please you, standing still even though I felt like every bone in my body was locking into place, and all you have to say about it is _screw this_?" He threw his arms up. "What the bloody _hell_?"

There was a moment of long, tense silence. Then there was a muffled choking sound from Dean. And the boy burst into wild laughter.

Seamus stared in disbelief as Dean doubled over with the force of his hysterical laughter, arms crossed over his chest to quell the forming stitches, eyes closed and teeth bared in a wide grin. He would have fallen to the ground with the force of his shrieking giggles had he not been able to throw his arm out and clutch at the low branch of a mottled old oak tree. He was still laughing when Seamus let out a shriek of undisguised disbelief and reached over to thunk his fist against the back of the laughing wizard's head. Hard.

It did, however, manage to bring him back to reality. He stood straight, still snickering softly, and wiped the tears out of his dark, smiling eyes.

When Seamus crossed his arms incredulously over his chest, eyebrows lifted expectantly, mouth turned down in a scowl, the only thing Dean had to say was -

"You're cute when you're mad."

And then there were warm, hungry lips pressed against Seamus's, stealing the impending gasp from behind his teeth. Long arms slithered around his waist, thin fingers brushing enticingly against Seamus's clothed hips, until Dean's wrists were locked limply inside the hollow of Seamus's back. His eyes were closed; Seamus's remained wide open and still.

When Dean's hands slid coaxingly up Seamus's back to play with the sandy strands of hair hanging along the nape of the boy's neck, Seamus's protective shield seemed to melt; his arms came up around Dean's waist, sliding into the same position Dean's hands had taken on his own back just seconds before, eyes closing instinctively. Dean grinned against his mouth.

Their lips were working in perfect synchronization, touching and clinging passionately, ripping away all traces of air that they might have earlier held.

It was an innocent dance of desire and passion; their lips melding together, fingers touching and holding, eyelids trembling with the desire to open and watch the other. They both moved with the expertise of someone who had been doing this for years, though Dean was Seamus's first kiss.

Said boy's long, dark fingers were twined through Seamus's sandy-brown hair, tugging and pulling the silky locks with just enough force to coax a moan from the Irish boy's mouth. Dean swallowed the sound greedily, another smile forming on his mouth as Seamus's own lithe hands tightened against his back.

Seamus opened his mouth and pulled quickly away when the need for oxygen became too much to bear. His eyes, the clear, deep color of a forget-me-not, were trained solely upon Dean, who still had his eyes closed; they were both breathing deeply.

Dean didn't remove his hands from Seamus's hair. He instead tugged the smaller boy gently forward, removing his fingers only when Seamus's hot cheek met his own rapidly-moving chest. Then his long-fingered hands slid down Seamus's shoulders; over his bare arms; down to where the Irish wizard's fists were balled beside his thighs. Dean coaxed his fingers out of their curled state with a feather-brush of his own against the back of Seamus's hand. When they obediently unfurled, Dean surreptitiously linked their fingers together. He then brought one of their intertwined hands up to his own face. He pressed his back of Seamus's curled hand to his reddened cheek with a sigh of contentment.

Seamus's lip curled up at the touching action. He was perfectly content to stand in their darkening clearing with his face against Dean's chest, their hands linked sweetly together, one of them lifted to Dean's flushed face, both wearing smiles of sweet victory.

The emotion only intensified when Dean moved his face a fraction to the side and kissed each one of Seamus's curled knuckles with slow, lazy movements. He was still smiling.

Seamus blushed furiously, the tips of his ears reddening along with his face. He felt heat swim contently into his abdomen, forming a relaxed ball of fiery triumph that widened the grin resting on his own features.

Dean smirked.

"You're even cuter when you're happy," he murmured into Seamus's mussed hair.

Seamus caught a surreptitious glance at Dean's forgotten portrait, before the dark boy's warm lips were pressed once more against his own and Seamus was forced into a state of blinding pleasure.

Wow, he thought as thin fingers slid into his hair once more, Dean sure knew his way around male anatomy.

**the end.**

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_Most of this chapter was written while listening to _Hanging By a Moment _by _Hinder. _Best. Song. Ever. _

_Big, big, big thanks to: _

Sayomi Mayako  
LeMaki  
Highqueen Julietta  
Black Alice Butterfly  
and  
purple pear 87

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Love you guys!

~AS123


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